What She Doesn't Say
by chagrinned
Summary: Edward Cullen enjoys his books, his car, his music...and watching the bookshop owner.  Then one day she touches his hand, and everything changes.  AU, diff kind of vamp, no singers.
1. Prologue

What She Doesn't Say

By

chagrinned

#

Prologue…

She was just an ordinary girl. She wore blue jeans and a red t-shirt with a gray zippered sweatshirt over it. She had very long, dark hair and it lay across her back in waves. Her eyes were brown. Not the beautiful black-brown of Gianna, but a warmer, lighter brown.

Maybe it was her eyes. The way they were liquid, her irises rimmed with black, the brown depths swirling. They marked a sharp contrast to her pale skin. All that dark. All that light. I shook my head. My growing infatuation with a human girl could lead me nowhere that I wanted to be.

Still each morning that the clouds gave cover, I found myself outside the door of her shop, waiting for her to let me in. I wandered the musty towers of books, touching this or that one, thinking about who used to own them, and why they'd ended up here. Finally choosing something, anything, and then waiting for that ninety second transaction where I exchanged cash for a glimpse of her brown eyes, a dose of her smile. Ninety seconds of being close enough to smell her, clean and sweet and pure. No other human had ever smelled so delicious and I found myself sucking on my bottom lip, imagining it was hers.

I huffed a sigh and chose a large book on Botticelli. Nine weeks and I would see his beauties in person. My heart, unbeating, hungered for the sight. I could sit for hours, undisturbed, and take in each tiny detail, each brush stroke. Never would the pieces add up to the sum. Never could I decipher why this shade or that created such a pull inside my chest. His Venus on her clam shell, his graces, dancing, while gods played around them. I thought, too, of the other works, the hall of marble Daphnes, taking flight from her Apollo, never able to escape. Bacchus: his pale skin and deadly brew, heavy hooded eyes telling of passion and pain. I hungered for them all. Soon, I promised myself. Soon.

I carried the book to her counter and she graced me with her smile again.

"Back so soon?" she asked. "I'm going to have to name a wing of this place after you. Mr…?" She asked my name with open curiosity in her eyes.

"Cullen," I answered. "Edward Cullen." I reached out to shake her hand. Physical contact, and if I was lucky I would be able to carry away a bit of her scent on my fingers after this exchange was through.

I watched her hand come forward and felt the panic rise up in me. Gloves! I'd forgotten to wear gloves. My cold hand would repulse her. I began to draw away but she was too quick, too friendly and eager to make at ease her new best customer.

"Bella," she said, gripped my hand and

Blue. Current of blue jolting down her arm and into my hand and hot so hot and soft the skin and clean the smell of her clean and sweet and _coffee not enough milk for the coffee this morning his eyes are so pretty, gold never seen that before wonder where he's from Cullen god he's beautiful his hand is cold offer him coffee his mouth suck on that lip-_

I snapped my hand back, my mind screaming.

What the fuck was that?


	2. Chapter 1

What She Doesn't Say

By

chagrinned

Chapter 1

#

I drove home, speeding more than I should, careless of entanglements with law enforcement. My mind returned, again and again, to that moment, those images, a million things inside of my head, sound and smell and touch, everything she saw and…thought.

They were her thoughts.

Disjointed and rough, coffee and my mouth. My tongue tasted my bottom lip, remembering her thought, the image of her face against mine, her mouth sucking my lip. I groaned and shifted against the leather seat, my cock straining against my pants.

She didn't know. While I stood there, dazed, trying to understand what had happened, she peered up at me through thick black lashes, her eyes swimming questions, a wary furrow on her brow. I must have completed the exchange, because the book lay on the seat next to me. Did I say good-bye? Offer any kind of excuse for my behavior? I couldn't recall. I could still taste the coffee on her tongue and it wasn't repulsive the way human food always was; it was better than I'd remembered it. Because I was remembering it through her. _She_ was tasting it. I ran my tongue over the roof of my mouth, recalling the flavor. She used milk, a lot of it. And sugar. It was bitter and sweet, smoke and caramel.

I settled into my study, the only room of the house which received my company for any length of time and thought about calling Carlisle. Since parting ways twenty years ago, we'd kept in close touch. Him, and the rest of my family. I missed them, and they me, and yet the freedom of my solitary life was something I couldn't give up. The long, open stretches of quiet after a century with six other companions was a tonic and I drank it with greed. For the last three years I'd lived here, in an isolated bit of America, the constant cloud cover allowing me to walk in the daylight, to mingle with the humans and drink in their enticing scent. The forests surrounding the town held plenty of prey, and my thirsts never became so severe that I couldn't quell them in the face of temptation. Human temptation.

Still, it would be good to have his take on this new situation. I'd never heard of anything like it before.

I could hear her thoughts.

#

In the week that followed I did not call Carlisle. I read books. I plagued my travel agent with phone calls and emails, confirming the arrangements for my trip to Florence. I played with the piano. I hunted. I did not return to the bookstore, though at nine each morning I chafed against my own will, yearning to see and touch her, terrified of actually doing so.

On the eighth day I tired of my routine. It was early still, she would not be at her shop for another hour, but still I had to go. I opened the door and

A fountain of long, dark hair and her scent, overwhelming me with sweet and clean and what kind of soap is that? Like ginger and laundry….

"Bella?" I asked.

Her eyes settled from surprise to curiosity again. She's so curious! Ah, and now her smile. Rows of even, white teeth and her pink mouth curving up at me. A flush of pink on her cheeks too, as embarrassment takes over. My hand twitched to touch her, to see if it could happen again.

I cocked my head at her, watching her emotions unravel over her face. The pink mouth moved and she spoke.

"Mr. Cullen," she said, the words a question and apology. The blush that flooded her cheeks was full of self-consciousness. I fought the urge to reach out to her, give her some gesture of comfort.

When she spoke again, her words came out a jumble. "I'm so sorry to bother you at home," she said. "I…I thought you might come back to the shop, but you didn't, and well, I have your change. From the book you bought? You left so quickly…." As her words foundered she flushed again and looked down at her feet. "I didn't want to disturb you," she said. "I just needed to give this back to you." Her fingers held a thin, white envelope.

My hand twitched no longer. I reached for the envelope and touched my fingers to hers. I braced myself for what might

Blue. Blue and now orange and yes it's there the coffee flavor on her tongue, bitter and warm _such an idiot why did I come here could have just mailed it his eyes are so beautiful my fingers in his hair did he like the Botticelli? I should_

I broke contact and drew a long deep breath, full of her. She received my most grateful smile as I listened to her heart pound.

"Thank you," I said. For the colors and your thoughts and the memory of coffee. Thank you for drinking coffee.

Confusion flashed across her face and she smiled again. "Of course. My pleasure, Mr. Cullen." She had one foot twisted behind her and the rounding of her shoulders eased. She drew herself up under my smile. I found myself cataloguing her every move.

I wanted to roar as she turned to leave. I wanted to trap her and keep her. I wanted to sift through her thoughts and see what she thought next, would she touch her small fingers to my hair? A shiver crawled up my spine at the thought.

"Bella," I said, catching her wrist in my hand, pulling her back to me. She turned, smiling surprise. I gripped the edge of the doorframe with my other hand, bracing myself for the sensation, for what I would have to do

_believe I did this, so dumb, Bella, why did you do this? Going to be late, crap, why didn't he invite me in couldn't have but still kind of rude oh like you're not geez so amazing his smile is_

"Please," I said. "Call me Edward."

Gush of purple deepening the blue, no thoughts. I released her wrist, my fingers leaving slight dents in the wood of the doorjamb.

"I very much enjoyed the book," I said, then turned away from her and closed the door. It wasn't until hours later that I realized that she'd caught me by surprise; I didn't hear her arrive. My obsession with her had left me vulnerable. This obsession had to end. I couldn't see her again.


End file.
